


With Careful Magic Caught Inside

by anoesis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoesis/pseuds/anoesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cave Malafides dona ferentes. Was that right? Beware of Malfoys bearing gifts... It was an easy rule to remember, so how had Hermione allowed herself to end up going home with such an unexpected new find?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the 2012 SSHG Exchange, this fic would not have been possible without the help of heartmom88 and Sixpence Jones.

 

_The subtle gift, a lover’s kiss,_

_With careful magic caught inside,_

_Locked away from Death’s dark gaze_

_A moment caught in time_.

 

 

* * *

 

Chapter One

Finding

* * *

 

 

There was no denying that Draco Malfoy was skulking.

 It might have taken a jaunt to Azkaban and a few months of playing the unwilling host to Lord Voldemort to ruffle his father’s feathers, but Malfoy the Younger could no more disguise his emotions than he could block a slap to the face. 

 Hermione sighed. His family had avoided a custodial sentence by the skin of their collective teeth – now was not the time to be getting up to anything untoward. Sneaking towards Knockturn Alley with a furtive expression on his face was perhaps not the best way to remain a free wizard. She stood, brushed the sandwich crumbs from her robes, and prepared to follow him down the narrow street.

She couldn't say why exactly she was following him, other than that he was so obviously about to get into quite serious  trouble and that it was somehow expected of her to get him back out of it. It was the same impulse that had driven her to follow Harry, Ron and Neville on the night they had found Fluffy. It didn't matter that no one had _asked_ for her help. As the sensible one, she was obliged to offer it.

 

* * *

 

 Borgin and Burkes had a very distinctive smell. Hermione hadn’t really had the time to take it all in when she had last been inside, spying on Draco Malfoy. She’d been a child then, with little idea of what she was doing. The whole place reeked of dust, beeswax, magic and the sour scent of decay.

Her quarry was hovering by a display case, throwing the occasional glance to the counter where the greasy looking proprietor was examining a tray of jewellery through his pince-nez. Even with his back to her, it was easy to read the tension in Draco’s posture. His shoulders were hunched and his knuckles gleamed white as his fingers flexed about the handle of a battered leather bag held uneasily at his side. He looked as if the slightest noise might spook him into flight.Last time she’d rushed in without a plan. He was unlikely to react well to any intervention on her part. She ought to lull him into feeling secure . . .

 “Draco Malfoy, whatever you are about to do, I would strongly suggest that you change your mind and make your way back home.”

She still hadn't quite got the hang of dissembling.

Draco turned to face her, his pale, pinched face alive with fear, clutching the bag to his chest. Oddly, on seeing her, some of the tension seemed to leave his eyes.

He almost looked relieved to have been caught.

“Give that to me,” she demanded, gesturing to the bag. Draco was touching it with his bare hands and he was too much of a coward to put himself at risk. If there was any danger, it came from whatever was sealed safely away inside the leather. He hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to placate a Ministry worker and telling her to mind her own business.

She narrowed her eyes, held out her hand and watched as the fight went out of him. He handed it over sullenly, not quite meeting her eyes. The bag was light enough to be empty; whatever was inside had been spelled weightless and silent. Draco had taken every precaution against being caught.

“What’s in here?” For the first time she questioned the good sense in becoming involved in whatever Draco had planned. If there was anything truly dangerous or disgusting in the bag, then she could well end up answering questions for the Aurors in Draco’s stead. Of all the possible scenarios in which she might end up once more sitting across a table from Ron, being handcuffed to her chair was probably the least likely to persuade him that she had moved on with her life and was doing just fine without him.

“Can I help you with anything?” Borgin was apparently no longer content with eavesdropping from across the counter and was now hovering solicitously at her elbow. Hermione ignored him.

“Well?”

Draco’s eyes flicked from her to Borgin and back again, before allowing them to rest on the bag in her hand. “I can’t—”

“Ah, Draco, there you are.”

Hermione whirled round to see Lucius Malfoy leaning against a door that she hadn’t even heard open. He was looking past her, towards his son, but Hermione was certain that his attention rested on her alone. He seemed to have recovered considerably from his travails during the war and was looking almost as pristine as he had that first afternoon in Diagon Alley when he had insulted her parents. In fact, he seemed as calm and relaxed as Draco seemed ready to shake into pieces. Like the Malfoy who had lain in wait for them at the Department of Mysteries.

She felt a moment of pure panic.

Draco had never been much of a threat, even when his plans had run to murder, and Borgin was little more than a fawning salesman. The presence of Mr Malfoy, however, was a sudden reminder that she was alone in the company of three pureblooded wizards, all of whom had suffered losses since the war.

She tightened her grip on the bag’s handle and drew her fingers up into her sleeve to where her wand was concealed. _His_ wand might have been confiscated by the Wizengamot, but she was less than comfortable having him between her and the exit.

The sudden tension was defused when Draco broke the silence with a whine. “I was going to, Father, I swear.” Hermione resisted the urge to face him and watched with interest as some of the self-assurance slipped from Lucius’ face. Draco carried on, “I had no idea that Granger was going to—”

He stalled to an abrupt halt as his father raised his hand for silence. “But—”

“Draco,” Lucius admonished, clearing his throat. “Come, we’ll discuss this at home. Good day, Mr Borgin.” He nodded in her direction, just the slightest dip of his chin. “Miss Granger.”

Hermione watched with narrowed eyes. Although Lucius was letting her get her way, she couldn’t help but feel some anger on Draco’s side. Surely the younger Malfoy no longer allowed his father to dictate to him in such an overbearing manner?

For a moment it seemed like Draco would argue, but his head dropped and he moved away from Hermione to his father’s side.

She sighed. Sometimes it seemed as if nothing had changed. They left the shop in silence, Lucius Malfoy without a backwards glance, while Draco threw a last furtive look in her direction before slinking away after his father.

Hermione stared after them, wondering what had just transpired. Draco had been about to carry out some unsavoury task, doubtlessly at his father’s behest. So why would Lucius reveal himself in such a politically dangerous part of town, especially to her? Had he been solely motivated by thoughts of protecting his son? Or had Draco already fulfilled his role in failing to deliver the bag to Borgin and surrendering it to her instead?

“Can I help Madam with anything?” Borgin was still at her side, his cold eyes at odds with his obsequious, oily voice. Hermione thought that she might have preferred him when he was hustling her out of his shop.

“No, thank you,” was her clipped reply.

“Not even with . . . that?” He nodded discreetly towards her hand and Hermione felt her heart sink.

She was still holding the leather bag.

She had the unhappy feeling that, somehow, she had been royally stitched up.

 

* * *

 

Hermione felt a little uncomfortable using Mr Borgin’s business Floo, but a whole lot less uncomfortable than she would have felt carrying the battered leather bag through the streets and back to the Ministry. Instead, she took the thing home, locked it in a carefully warded cupboard and Apparated back to work.

The obvious course of action was to take the damn thing straight to the Aurory. The amnesty on Dark Artefacts had ended some months ago and it could possibly spell the end of her fledgling career if she was found to have such a thing in her possession, yet, for various reasons, she couldn’t bring herself to turn over the bag.

The first reason was fairly noble. She had followed the reluctant-looking Draco with the firm intention of preventing him from landing himself squarely back in trouble, and only the worst sort of sneak would then turn around and hand him over to the authorities. The second reason was less easy to define, but it had something to do with the way Lucius Malfoy had appeared, wandless and unprotected, the moment Draco had handed over the bag.

Actually, thinking about it, he’d only appeared once she had demanded to know what was inside. Which – if you had spent your youth twisting from one plot to the next and were understandably a little twitchy as a result – might suggest that maybe he’d wanted her to have the thing in the first place, but didn't wish his son to reveal what it was. That, if anything, was actually a pretty compelling reason for heading straight to the authorities.

So why did she feel as if she shouldn’t?

Hermione headed straight to her office, sat at her desk, and pulled her papers towards her. Ten minutes later she pushed them aside with a groan.

Of course, the underlying reason for not visiting the Aurors would be admitting that somehow she had allowed herself to be caught up in a Malfoy plot. Not only that, but that she had _willingly_ involved herself in one. Harry would use the look that suggested, for all her cleverness, that she was rather lacking in common sense. Ron would look at her in pity.

That final thought was so awful that she made her mind up there and then. Whatever was in that bag had – _possibly_ – been intended for her. If it was dangerous, she would dispose of it. If it was cursed, she would seek out her own justice. And if it was some sort of message – some sort of belated apology – well, she would just have to deal with that as well. Perhaps there was some convoluted Slytherin logic at play, perhaps not.

Perhaps it was just an awful lot of coincidence with a bit of Malfoy opportunism thrown in for good measure. It was enough to give her a headache. One thing, however, was clear: whatever it was, she would be the one to find out.

 

* * *

 

She stared at the bag.

 _Cave Malafides dona ferentes_. Was that right? _Beware of Malfoys bearing gifts_. It irritated her to this day that there had been no formal training in Latin given at Hogwarts, despite it being the base language for so many of the spells they were expected to learn. Surely understanding what a spell meant would go a long way to understanding how they worked. If Harry had the slightest idea what Sectumsempra meant, would he ever have used it, even in a duel?

She stared at the bag some more. Really, it was rather cool, like an old Gladstone bag, complete with a thick leather strap and brass buckle. Had she seen it in a second hand shop, she would have been tempted to buy it. The old leather was soft and buttery to the touch. It was just an Undetectable Extension Spell away from being the perfect work bag . . .

Finally, curiosity winning out over good sense, she tapped her wand against the heavy looking buckle and watched as the wide strap slithered free.

There was no rush of magic, no eerie gasp of air.

She leaned forwards and peered inside.

Of all the things she had feared to find, this certainly had not been one of them. There was no blood, for a start. No mewling, hissing Dark Lord reborn. Nothing at all _Horcruxy_.

Neither was there any gold. Not that she’d been hoping for a reward.

Instead, there was . . . there was . . .

“Accio!”

Rather than catching the thing she directed it with her wand to settle on the coffee table next to yesterday’s newspaper.

Huh.

It was an ugly, oversized Tiffany lamp, all stained glass and beaded droplets. It was like something she might have found in her Aunty Lou’s house in Brighton, crammed between the art deco figurines and the ceramic Airedale Terriers.

What had Malfoy been doing with it? Surely Narcissa would never allow something like this in the Manor? The place may have been all ostentatious chandeliers and gaudy gold leaf, but the woman clearly had some sense of style, even if it was trapped in late 18th Century Versailles.

Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow she had been set up. Draco hadn't appeared to notice her as he had crept towards the shop and he’d looked devastated when he had seen her, but his father’s arrival had made her suspicious. It wasn't as if Lucius Malfoy hadn't been willing to use his son to further his interests in the past. He’d let him take the Mark when just a child. Tricking him into delivering something to her wouldn’t have caused him the slightest quiver of scruples.

Determined to find the answer, she raised her wand once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Wandering into the kitchen, Hermione filled the kettle, switched it on and went in search of a clean mug. By the time the kettle boiled she had given up on the idea and poured herself a large glass of wine instead.

Say the lamp hadn’t been intended for her. Say Lucius Malfoy had simply been interested in retrieving his son from a potentially compromising situation. Say that . . . that . . .

“Gah!”

What was is that made this lamp special? She had already tried every Dark Arts detection spell she could think of – and having helped the boys revise for their Auror exams, that was more than a few – but none of them had revealed anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps this was just an ordinary, albeit garish, lamp.

By the end of the bottle, the lamp had ceased to bother her. For all she knew, the Malfoys had been determined to get rid of the thing simply because it was so damned ugly and obviously Muggle. She settled down to watch television, the dilemma over.

 

* * *

 

It was dark when the sudden noise of adverts woke her, just the blue-green light of the television to illuminate the room. She blinked in confusion, her eyes dry and her mouth dryer. The flickering of the screen reflected off the wine bottle. Really, when had she got to the point where she would drink an entire bottle by herself, especially on a weeknight?

She sat up cautiously, her back aching from the odd angle in which she had slumped. What time was it?

Hermione shook her head to clear it of the last tendrils of her dream, the scent of blood and vinegar still clinging to her waking mind. Her wand forgotten on the coffee table, she leaned forward to reach for the lamp switch. Her fingers brushed the neck of the lamp, searching aimlessly for the catch. Cobweb caught on her fingers. She wiped them against the sturdy base, frowning at the sticky, dusty mess that refused to shift.

She froze, the tips of her fingers still touching the overworked, ostentatious bronze, before snatching her hand away. There had been the faintest tremble beneath her hand, like the promise of an earthquake.

Stumbling back, she caught her knee on the coffee table as she scrambled for her wand. How had she let herself be caught without it?

Suddenly there was a coiling rush of black smoke streaming from the lamp, twisting up to the ceiling, then curling back down to tower over her.

It reminded her of the awful spinning as a Boggart slid into a new form to inspire terror, and she was certain that she was about to come face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange. Or a dead Harry, lying prone in Hagrid’s arms. Or Ron, his face twisting into distaste as he walked away from her for a second time.

She struggled to her feet, determined to blast the creature with the strongest Ridikulus this side of the DADA classroom, when the smoke began to draw back and coalesce. Hermione held her wand out in front of her and waited for the worst, her mind already spinning through possible counter-scenarios; Bella’s wig might fall off, Harry was play acting, Ron was . . . Ron was . . .

Thankfully, she never had to find a way to make Ron’s betrayal the least bit humorous as the smoke formed into a different shape all together.

It was Snape.

That was . . . unexpected.

At first, she was too confused to notice that the feeling of dread one normally associated with a Bogart was missing. She didn't fear the apparition in front of her. Had he been lying in the dust, blood pooling beneath him, then he would have been the stuff of nightmares. But whole and hale? Snape the man had ceased to frighten her once Harry had shared the truth of his dismal story.

She watched the apparition carefully through narrowed eyes. There was something not right with the image, even if one overlooked the fact that she had watched Severus Snape die almost a year before. Her dreams had recounted the event often enough for her to be certain of that fact.

No, this was not the Professor Snape she had last seen crumpled on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack, his blood seeping sluggishly through the dust, but the tall, domineering figure she remembered from her first Potions lesson. Raven black hair and sweeping black robes. There was a glint of gold at his neck.

She folded her arms over her chest, her wand gripped carefully in her hand, the tip pointing in his direction.

“What are you?”

 

 

 

 


	2. Leaving

The creature stared at her, his eyes hard. “Miss Granger?” he demanded. “What are _you_ doing with my lamp?” He stared around her little front room in distaste, his eyes falling on the flickering TV screen. “And just where is it that you have brought me? Is this a _Muggle_ residence?”

Hermione stared at the apparition in mute dismay. What had she done to deserve this? Why would whatever magic was at play choose to saddle her with a cruel facsimile of a school teacher? Since Severus Snape’s true story had been revealed she had allowed her memory of him at school to fade slightly until his previous bullying had paled in comparison to the hero he had later become. This creature was straight out of her third year: intimidating, impatient and unkind. 

“I suppose Messrs Potter and Weasley can’t be too far away?” he continued. “Well, girl?”

Hermione found herself fighting the need to explain herself to the . . . the . . . For once her vocabulary failed her. She had no idea what the _thing_ in front of her might be, save that it _wasn’t_ Snape. The trademark sneer was too perfect. Even his teeth, though jumbled and uneven as before, now looked sharp and dangerous. His robes rippled with all the sleekness of a predator rather than the dull sheen of heavy wool.

“What are you?” she repeated, wand raised.

He paused in his assessment of her flat to look at her.

“I emerged from a lamp, Miss Granger.” He spoke slowly as if talking to a child. “What precisely do you imagine I might be?”

That had been her initial assessment, but she had dismissed it, having always presumed that genies were an entirely Muggle construct. Having the creature in front of her agree with her guess made her even less inclined to believe it. 

She kept her wand carefully trained on him. _It._ “Then why do you look like Professor Snape?”

“A manifestation of unconscious desire?” the djinn suggested salaciously, before rolling his eyes. He sounded like him, too. That same controlled, silken voice, slow with menace and heavy with perfectly enunciated disdain. “Perhaps because I _am_ Professor Snape. Or what’s left of him, at any rate.”

Too, too perfect.

“I don't believe you.”

“Does it really matter?” He shrugged, the look of boredom so perfect that it might have been sculpted. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. You rubbed the lamp. You have five wishes. Use them wisely.”

“Five?” She frowned. “That doesn’t sound quite right.” 

“I didn’t make the rules. Make your wishes and allow me to return to my stolen lamp.”

“I didn't steal it!”

“I have long suspected you to be little more than a petty thief and a vandal. I suppose you just happened to find it, did you? Some evil wizard tricked you into taking it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact—” she began, before stopping herself. There was no way she was going to allow herself to be dragged into an argument with a creature of possibly Dark origins. It was just that he looked so like Professor Snape that it was hard to quell the urge to react like a chastened school girl. “No,” she decided aloud. “I won’t be drawn into conversation with you. Return to your lamp or I will be forced to use magic to contain you.”

Not-Snape paused as if to argue, but then his shoulders seemed to sag a little and a look of resignation flickered across his face, ruining the effect of Fearsome Potions Master. 

“As you wish it,” he murmured, and then was gone.

* * *

Hermione returned the lamp to its carefully warded cupboard, adding another layer of protection to the spells, feeling dazed. Whatever the creature had been, it had been able to discern her name and seemed to have a good idea about what subjects might leave her confused and shaken. Its assertion that it was a genie was troubling, as it suggested that it had some method of divining her thoughts.

The idea of Professor Snape – or even something that simply looked like him – being able to read her mind was enough to make her shudder. The months since the war had allowed her memory of him to mellow into that of a man in an impossible position, forced to live a lie, his every action an act of self preservation. The mean teacher who had caused her to cry had been forgiven and, to some extent, forgotten.

Seeing him again had stirred up some painful memories, and she resented it. She had made her peace with the man, had visited the memorial in his honour, and had cried tears of genuine grief once the euphoria of victory had passed. He had died in front of her and nothing had the right to make her confront that all over again. As if she hadn’t done it enough times in her dreams.

The thing – she was going to have to think of it as a genie, as its current lack of label was almost as unsettling as the thing itself – the genie’s choice of appearance was irritating as well. Choosing the image of Professor Snape was certain to unsettle her, but dressing him up like that? Ebony hair and alabaster skin? Romanticising the image of a fallen war hero was all well and good when done in the privacy of one’s own mind, but to use it as a way of influencing her? No, that was not something she would allow.

Hermione remained angry throughout her shower – it was already past four o'clock and there was little use in trying to return to sleep in her current state of agitation – shampooing and rinsing her hair with unaccustomed force. By the time she turned off the water and reached for her towel she had become a little maudlin, a state that thoughts of the fallen often inspired in her, and by the time that she reached for her wand to dry her hair, she had realised that what she mostly felt was hungover.

She pulled on her work robes – plain black, an almost exact replica of the ones she had worn to school – and headed back to the kitchen to fix herself a cup – _no, make that a pot_ – of tea. Things would look a little better after a hot drink; they always did.

Pausing in the doorway, she felt cold fear trickle down her spine.

The lamp was sitting on the table.

In a flurry of magic, the Gladstone bag was summoned and the lamp forced inside. By the time both were securely back inside the cupboard Hermione was breathing hard, all thoughts of tea forgotten. 

Gradually her racing heart began to slow and she sat down at the table, facing the cupboard. What had just happened? How had the thing escaped from her wards? Wards were something she excelled at, having spent a full year practicing them in earnest. 

After a little while, she relaxed enough to reach for the kettle, but her eyes never strayed far from where the lamp was squirreled away.

This time, it stayed put until it was time to leave.

* * *

Having the bag on her desk was a distraction she could well do without. It behaved itself perfectly, and she began to wonder if somehow she had imagined its previous behaviour. Had she taken the lamp into the kitchen with the intention of warding it into the cupboard, only to forget and leave it on the table? She couldn’t honestly be sure. Her head was still feeling a little muzzy and the events of that morning were already beginning to blur. Had the creature really looked and sounded that much like her Professor? 

Had all she really encountered been an unusually intelligent Boggart? 

Perhaps the bag should go to the Aurors. She could claim that she had found it outside and was worried about what it might contain . . . If nothing else, it would be nice to have an opportunity to see Harry again.

No, she’d considered that path yesterday, and despite having discovered what the bag contained, it didn’t sound any more appealing. Besides, there was still the chance that it would be traced back to Draco or herself. She was far less concerned about the Malfoys this morning than she had been the day before, but she had no wish to find herself embroiled in any scandal concerning them.

Doing her best to ignore the Dark item lurking on her desk, she resolutely turned her mind back to her work.

* * *

It was a quiet Friday and she was able to slip away early to lunch. The streets were busy with crowds of children preparing to head back to school, for which she was grateful. The busier the streets, the less likely she was to be seen heading down Knockturn Alley for the second time in as many days.

It felt a little cowardly, refusing all responsibility for the lamp and its inhabitant, but Hermione was determined. She’d taken care of enough Dark objects in her time and had decided long since that it was better left to the professionals.

At least they were paid for their troubles.

Borgin and Burkes was empty, save for its proprietor. Hermione wondered how much longer a shop like this could last in the climate that had followed the war. It was a pity really. Although the street was as dismal and dirty as ever, Hermione had come to appreciate that the world needed these patches of darkness just as surely as it needed the light.

Borgin noticed the Gladstone bag immediately, but his face remained neutral as she approached the counter. Taking care not to knock any of the dusty items scattered about its surface, she placed the bag before him.

“Malfoy was delivering this to you.”

He didn’t speak, just swept his wand over the bag in a series of intricate slashes and dips, his brow furrowed. Hermione realised she was witnessing detection spells whose like she had never seen before and watched in silent admiration, waiting for him to finish. Eventually he levitated the lamp from the bag and settled it back down on the counter.

“What do you want me to do with this?” 

“Malfoy was delivering it to you,” she repeated. “I can only presume he meant for you to have it.”

“No transaction was arranged. One does not receive gifts from the Malfoys.” His voice trailed to a murmur as he examined the lamp. “Not without a price. What is it?”

Hermione shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

And that was true, wasn’t it? This was a wizard that had worked alongside Voldemort, back when he had been a young man. His entire career had been dedicated to collecting and trading Dark objects. Doubtless he could have told them all about Horcruxes, had they simply had the wherewithal to ask. He probably carried items capable of destroying the damn things and would have probably let them use them, for nothing more than a promise of silence and a healthy chunk of Harry’s gold. That could have saved them an awful lot of hardship and regret. But no, instead they had to tear off alone and unprepared, with little more to go on besides Harry’s gut instinct and a book of fairy tales.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” he agreed. “This lamp might fetch a pretty penny, if it is what I suspect it to be. What do you want for it?”

“I don’t want anything. It was intended for you – I just want it out of my flat.”

“Of course its price depends on whether or not it is still intact. You haven’t handled it, have you, Miss Granger?”

“It’s not mine,” she insisted, backing away from the counter. “I don’t want it.”

“Well, it’s not quite as simple as that, but _I_ won’t prevent you leaving it here. Of course, if you have activated the spell then it would be useless to another. I have to ask again, did you touch it?”

Hermione shook her head and turned for the door. “It was intended for you,” she insisted as she slipped outside. “Do what you wish with it.”

“What I wish with it?” he called. “Miss Granger, wait!”

* * *

Hermione had to quell the urge to run down the cobbled street like a frightened child, forcing herself to walk back to Diagon Alley with calm measured steps. Thankfully Mr Borgin showed no signs of following her and she was able to slip inside Flourish and Blotts and up the steps to the galleried shelves that were usually free from browsers.

She missed Hogwarts library with a fierceness that would be rather embarrassing to admit to out loud. The Ministry had a space termed the _library_ , but it was more of a book and file repository and held little of the soothing charm that she associated with the word. These days, when she had a good deal of thinking to do or needed the chance to calm herself down a little, she liked to head to a book shop for a nice, unhurried browse. 

Ideally she would have preferred a Waterstones, with their availability of coffee, or an Ottakar’s with their comfy chairs, but she only had an hour for lunch and currently lacked the fortitude to deal with Muggle London. Instead, she headed for the section on Early Modern history and pulled something suitably dusty from the shelf.

Opening the book with care, she breathed in the heady scent of paper and glue and allowed herself to be lulled.

* * *


	3. Finding Anew

Hermione hadn’t meant to wander to the section concerning magical creatures but, once there, it had seemed silly not to make a cursory inspection of the titles to see if there was anything relating to genies. It had been rather a surprise to find one. She’d bought it on a whim and so far it was making for interesting bedtime reading.

According to the book, genies were a rather Muggle idea, but one based in wizarding fact. Apparently it was possible to curse a magical creature, binding it to an object and effectively making it the slave of whoever owned the object that bound it. The creature’s magic then became the property of that person until ownership passed on to someone else. It was similar to the magic that kept house-elves tied to a particular house or family.

The irony was not lost on Hermione.

Apparently, unlike house-elves, these creatures felt no loyalty to their masters and were generally to be considered untrustworthy. There were several fanciful tales of trickery and deceit sprinkled liberally throughout its pages. One thing the book had so far failed to discuss was the notion that a djinn, as the book termed them, might assume a visage that would appeal to its new owner’s sense of loyalty or trust. Still, there was enough talk of plumes of smoke and towering figures to convince her that she had unwittingly encountered such a creature herself.

She couldn’t help the unhappy feeling of guilt lodged low in her stomach, though. Although she had no wish for a magical slave, he had briefly rested in her responsibility and she had done nothing but wash her hands of him at the first possible opportunity. Who knew who Borgin might sell that lamp to?

Perhaps she should tell him that she had changed her mind? Keep the lamp out of harm’s way herself?

She closed the book and placed it on the bedside table, rubbing her eyes. No, it was still a dangerous item and better off with a person who knew how to deal with it. 

_Still, five wishes . . ._

That was probably another sign that the creature was not to be trusted. The idea of wishes was also a Muggle one. It had probably taken one look around her tiny living room and decided how best to trick her. 

Oddly, she might have been more concerned for the creature’s welfare had it not chosen that particular face. Seeing Professor Snape had been like a punch to the gut. Everything that had faded over the last few years had come rushing back with overwhelming clarity and she’d hardly been able to think over the ghastly memories that had suddenly been crowding for attention.

Hermione could only suppose that the creature had chosen his image hoping that it might inspire trust in her, for whom could you trust more than Professor Snape? His loyalty had been extraordinary, as had his courage. She owed him a personal debt, too. He’d saved her life, albeit grudgingly, and he had saved Harry, as well. That her friend was now free to marry and have a family and grow old and fat in years to come was something that Hermione would never take for granted, not after having seen him lifeless in Hagrid’s arms. 

Yes, if the real Severus Snape were to appear on her doorstep – having somehow miraculously survived Nagini’s bite – there was nothing in the world she would not do to help him. It was the sort of daydream she occasionally indulged in, although she would never admit it: a fantasy where she had been the only one to realise Professor Snape’s true nature and had fought to save him that day, rather than watching in mute terror as he had bled to death in front of her. 

Objectively, she knew that she didn't know enough about healing to have saved his life and nurse him back to health – _during which time his prickly defences would have dropped and they would have become something close to friends_ – but she might perhaps have been able to slow the poison or staunch the blood flow long enough for a real Healer to be summoned. She might have been able to ease his pain a little. Instead she had simply stood there like a frightened little girl.

Huffing to herself, she turned off the light and settled back against the pillows. She had hoped that this sort of pointless agonising over the past had finally come to an end.

* * *

_It wasn't a very old dream, but it felt to Hermione as if the shadowy room and the scent of blood had been with her for years. It crept upon her sometimes and left her feeling chilled and shaken, wondering if perhaps all that they had done had somehow not been worth it._

_It was the djinn’s fault. She had done her best to suppress her memories of that night in May during her waking hours. Seeing his face again had brought it straight back._

_She was watching Snape die._

_The detailing in the dream was so clear as to be excruciating. It felt as if she was watching everything unfold from the edge of the room. Previously, she had been unable to tear her eyes from the monstrous snake as it sank its teeth into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. This time, something was different, and she was able to drag her eyes away from the awful sight and forced herself to confront the image of Lord Voldemort instead._

_He had been truly terrifying. Those dark red eyes, set deep into his malformed face. He looked as if he had been moulded from dead flesh and putty, blue veins pulsing just below his stretched, pallid skin. It amazed her even now that Harry had set out on his own to face his death in this form._

_A crate was pushed aside, and there was Harry, looking so very young, his green eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the Shack. He was so thin. He had always been skinny, but those months of living in hiding had robbed whatever softness six years of Hogwarts meals had managed to grace him with. Hermione’s younger self followed. She was skinny, too, her hair a greasy mess, her clothes dirty and torn._

_The smell of blood filled her nostrils. She knew that if she were to look, Snape would be beginning to shudder as death approached._

_She focussed instead upon the rest of the room. The trail that cloaks had made through the thick dust that carpeted the floor. The discarded demi johns in the corner and the rows of pickling jars on the shelf by the door. Beneath the smell of blood there was the clear tang of vinegar in the air. And something else. Potatoes, perhaps. This had been an ordinary cellar once, maybe thirty years ago, before Dumbledore purchased the building for hiding Remus Lupin’s condition from the world. The remaining evidence of preserves suggested that the building had not stood empty for long before being put to use._ Did the previous owner leave of their own accord, _she wondered_ , or did they, too, fall prey to Dumbledore’s version of what was best for everyone? __

_She sighed. Being angry with Dumbledore, although a welcome distraction, was not going to get her anywhere. Like it or not, his bizarre plan had worked, handing the wizarding world back its freedom with surprisingly few casualties._

“Take them.” 

_She absolutely refused to look. She knew what would come next, had replayed this moment time and again in the nights that had followed. Harry would ask her for something to hold the memories, she would conjure a flask, and then Snape would die._

_Hot, heavy tears pricked at her eyes._ Could you even cry in dreams? _Her throat was thick and painful with angry sorrow as she looked around in desperation for something to distract herself. Dust trails on the floor, a tiny high window that she had never noticed before, its pane almost completely obscured by cobwebs, four pickling jars on the shelf and the remains of another on the floor. They could explode sometimes if the contents started to ferment. How did she know that? A Bakelite light switch on the wall opposite the shelf, a bizarrely Muggle inclusion in a wizard’s home; the ugly brown Tiffany lamp lying on its side next to the old burlap sacks. The sacks were doubtless responsible for the underlying scent of mud and potatoes._

“Look at me.”

_And she did; she couldn't help it. Every time she heard that request her eyes flicked unerringly to Snape’s crumpled form, just in time to see the light fade from his extraordinary dark eyes._

* * *

She’d been crying in her sleep and her whole body seemed to ache from the sadness that had lodged itself in her gut. It had been _that_ dream again. Somehow, it was the worst. Worse than watching her parents’ taxi pull away from the curb, worse than frantically trying to heal Harry after Nagini’s fangs had caught him in Godric’s Hollow, worse than the dreams where she saw the rows of bodies under the bright dawn sky of the Great Hall. At least all of those things had felt as if they had served a purpose. Her parents had driven to safety. Harry had been healed. The dead had been buried, the living consoled and the damage to the castle repaired. Snape’s death had just been a terrible waste. 

As had his life.

Fresh tears ran down her face and she did nothing to stop them. There would be no more sleeping now. She would let her emotions run themselves out and then climb into the shower, letting the plentiful hot water wash away the last remnants of her tears.

The dream had been so horribly detailed. Thankfully it was fading now, but parts of it were still terribly vivid. It was funny how things you didn't even know you had seen could come back so clearly. She’d forgotten about the rank stink of the cellar before the scent of blood had masked it. 

She should have known that the business with the lamp would bring on the dreams. Wasn’t this the very reason she kept a small vial of Dreamless Sleep in the cabinet above the sink?

She stilled.

_She’d forgotten about the lamp._ Forgotten that she had seen it once before.

Or had she? How much of the dream had been a reaction to seeing Snape again, even as an imposter, and how much of it had been directly influenced by the djinn?

No. It was no illusion. Strange that such an item should find its way downstairs into a root cellar. Stranger still that it should have survived the previous use of this building intact. She could remember how it had struck her as odd at the time, but had soon been forgotten in the horror of the moment.

The lamp had been there when he had died. 

_It was him._

Finally allowing herself to believe the impossible, she whispered his name aloud.

“Snape.”

He had returned. He had returned and she had failed him. She had failed to see him for what he was at school, and when presented with a second chance to help, she had failed then as well. She had taken the first opportunity to abandon him to the—

“Yes?” 

The unexpected reply drew a gasp from her. His voice was exactly as she remembered: bored, weary and faintly mocking. Hearing it in the dim confines of her bedroom was so unexpected and alien that Hermione simply stared at his blurred outline through her tears.

She was conscious that perhaps she ought to be reaching for her wand. That his sudden appearance spoke of further dubious magic, but all she could focus on was the fact the somehow Severus Snape had returned. Lamp or no lamp, he was back.

It was he who eventually broke the tense silence. “Maybe we should talk when you are more composed.”

_That was an unusually polite way of phrasing it,_ Hermione mused, fighting the odd urge to giggle. ‘When her face wasn’t streaked with tears and snot’, would have been closer to the mark. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she stared at him blearily in the weak early morning light. He was standing with his face slightly averted, watching the wall behind her head.

Sighing, she twitched the blankets back over her legs and did her best to straighten her t-shirt. 

“It is _you_ , isn't it?” 

“What would make you believe me this time?”

Yes, that sounded like him. At least, she thought it did. It had been more than a few years since she had last attended one of his lessons. She reached over to turn on her lamp. “What are you doing here?”

With the light on she noticed that he had become somehow diminished. No longer was he the over-bright creature that had appeared before. He looked more like the man she remembered, right down to the tired crease in his forehead. 

“You called for me. From now on I must obey your every summons.”

“I didn’t realise.” The grief from her dream was fading fast, but something equally as heavy had taken its place within her gut. Guilt, she realised. 

He shrugged. “I’m bound to you as the mistress of the lamp.”

* * *

She pulled on her dressing gown, led the way to the little kitchen and filled the kettle. The ugly lamp was already there, standing serenely next to the microwave. Hermione resisted the urge to shudder.   
It wasn't only ugly, it was menacing as well. Disquieting. 

She turned to her unusual houseguest. “Would you like some tea?” she offered politely. There was no way she would sleep now. Even if she weren't suddenly playing host to a dead man, the presence of the lamp and the after-effects of the dream had pushed all thoughts of sleep from her mind.

“I can’t drink in this form.” 

The words were terse and clipped, but they told Hermione far more about his continuing existence than she would have expected to receive. More, perhaps, than she knew how to deal with.

“You can’t—” she began, but something in his eyes stopped her. “Well, I need tea anyway. Will you sit with me for a bit?”

He looked uncomfortable. “This isn't supposed to be how this works. You’re supposed to wish for things, not offer me breakfast. I’m tied to you until your wishes are granted.”

“And then?”

“And then?” he echoed, looking confused. “And then nothing. And then I head back to the lamp until the next person summons me.”

Hermione stared at him, aghast. “It’s not that easy, is it? I knew you. I know what happened to you. I can't just leave you like this.”

He graced her with a look that reminded her how he had once been the most feared professor at Hogwarts. “What difference, precisely, is it that you feel you can make?”


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione settled for tea. If drinking in front of him felt rude, she knew that a bacon sandwich would be impossible. Still, the caffeine helped, and after her second cup she began to feel vaguely more capable of tackling the bizarre situation she suddenly found herself in. 

Professor Snape was sitting in her kitchen. 

Severus Snape, the fallen hero of the Wizarding World, Defender of the Light, Order of Merlin, first class (posthumously awarded), was currently hunched over her kitchen table, ignoring her as assiduously as she was studying him.

He still didn't look quite right. It was as if she was seeing the Snape she had wanted to appear, rather than the man himself, and that worried her. It made her feel as if the lamp was still somehow exerting its influence over the both of them, and _that_ irked her.

“What happened?” she asked, hoping for an answer. He’d been monosyllabically unhelpful so far. “How did you survive?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he replied oppressively, not looking up.

Hermione frowned, wondering how a little thing like surviving his own death could somehow _not really matter._

“Well,” she pressed, “if we can work out how you ended up like this we should be able to work out how to—”

“No.” Although he spoke softly there was something in his tone that cut across her words. “This is not some puzzle that can be worked through, Miss Granger. There is no riddle or prophecy here. I neither want nor need your help. All I ask of you is that you make your wishes and allow me some small reprieve before a new master finds me.”

His attitude was as commanding as it had been in the classroom but it jarred uncomfortably with the strangely humble choice of words.

Hermione was at odds with herself. Her natural deference towards him made her inclined to do as he asked, yet her desire for justice was stronger. She couldn’t sit watching his slumped figure as he sat in _her_ kitchen and not see it as an invitation to help. That he had somehow survived – no matter how unlikely it was – wasn’t something that she could brush aside as easily as he seemed to. 

If he could survive his own death then he could certainly be freed from the lamp; she could feel it in her very bones. Her whole life as a witch had been spent facing insurmountable problems and somehow overcoming them. It made her fingers itch for her wand – the feeling that anything could be solved as long as you researched hard enough, fought long enough, endured without complaint . . .

Yet he seemed so very resigned.

“Don't you want to be freed?” Hermione asked the question quietly, fearful of his answer. The Professor Snape that she remembered was unlikely to take kindly to such a personal question, but she could think of no other reason why he was not encouraging her to try on his behalf.

“It’s immaterial. The power of the lamp cannot be broken.”

“I wish—” she began, then stilled herself. “I want to be able to help.”

“Then why not try my way?” he pressed. “Make your wishes. What harm could there be in that?”

She looked up, incredulous. “Asks the man trapped for eternity in a lamp.”

“That wouldn’t happen to you. You wouldn’t fall into the same sort of trap that I did.” Was it her imagination or had he hesitated slightly? “I doubt it’s in your nature.”

She considered for a moment, wondering what it might be like to indulge him. When she had first discovered that magic was real she had felt as if the whole world had suddenly opened up to her – as if she might have anything, be anything she desired. Yet magic, just like everything else, came with rules. There was a limit to what was possible and a limit to what was prohibited. Was a genie’s power unrestrained? What would she take if she could?

“Could you make me understand languages?” she questioned. “All languages?” That seemed like a sensible request.

He was very still, watching her carefully as if she might suddenly pounce. “Yes.”

It was tempting. Selfish, but oh so tempting. He would be able to grant her knowledge, too, no doubt. From what she had read, Hermione knew he could make her wealthy, perhaps even make her beautiful. All so very tempting. She sighed. 

“What about world peace?”

He looked startled. “I never imagined you for a beauty queen contestant. What on earth would you do with world peace?”

Hermione considered for a moment. What was one supposed to do with a thing like that? “Be grateful for it?” she hazarded. 

“That’s an asinine response. Just say I _was_ able to end all the wars currently tearing your Muggle world into strips. What would all the soldiers do when they realised they were out of a job?” Hermione frowned at his reference to _her Muggle world_ , but didn’t interrupt. This was the most he had ever said to her outside of a classroom and by far the most loquacious he had been since she had accidentally summoned him from the lamp. “Or if I vanished all the weapons? There are other implements of death than guns. I cannot change human nature. I cannot force people to love one another – there are Dark potions for that sort of thing – and I cannot force men to live peaceably when they desire blood. Unless things have changed, Imperio was an Unforgivable worthy of Azkaban.”

She shuddered at the comparison. “I don't want to control the world.”

“I suppose you want to save it, instead?” he mocked.

“I’ll leave that to the likes of you and Dumbledore,” she snapped. Immediately she felt contrite. “I’m sorry,” she offered. “You’re not making this any easier.”

“No,” he answered. “But you can. Make your wishes. Let me go.”

He sounded so sincere that she was inclined to believe him.

“I wouldn’t be trapped?” She could hear the waver in her own voice. The desire to give in and take the selfish route instead. There were so many things that she wanted. So many things that she had lost, but that could be found again.

Her eyes crept to his neck. 

He sighed and pulled his high collar away. There was no scar – at least none that she could see – instead there was a glint of gold. An ornate torc encircled his neck, the golden band redolent with rubies and emeralds. Hermione felt a momentary urge to have such a bauble for herself, but stilled it, understanding the price attached. Snape wore it heavily, like a yoke.

“Only if you wish for it. Some wished to live forever. Others wished for unlimited power. They got them, but what good is power when you can only use it to answer the whims of others?”

“What did you wish for?”

“Does it matter? That life is gone forever.” His eyes sought hers. “Please, Miss Granger. There must be something that you want?”

His eyes were so dark that Hermione decided that they might very possibly be black. Something about them made the breath catch in her throat and prompted her to ask the question that had hovered at the edge of her mind since morning.

“Can . . . can you bring people back to life?”

He became very grave all of a sudden. She had never thought of him possessing any particular levity, but his previous taciturnity seemed positively bubbly compared to the haunted look that crossed his face.

“No one can bring back the dead,” he whispered. “Not truly.”

_Oh._

Because why would Severus Snape have tracked down a mythological item such as this lamp if not for that express purpose? It shouldn’t have surprised her really; Harry had shouted Snape’s devotion to Lily Potter loud for all to hear during the Final Battle. It just seemed a little disappointing. She couldn't help but feel that the complex, courageous man that was Snape would have had a slightly more complex and courageous story. Living and dying for love was all very noble, but Harry’s mum had been no Helen of Troy.

The whole thing just seemed that bit . . . plebeian. An incredibly ordinary story for a brilliant, extraordinary man. Pining away for a girl he had met as a child. It was a plot worthy of a soap opera. 

He must have tried using the lamp to bring her back. Was that how he had become tied to the thing? Yes, he would know that some wishes were impossible. Her heart twisted in pity for him.

“I see.”

He glared at her. “Of course you do.” 

Hermione looked away, conscious that she had just crossed some sort of line. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened since his apparent death, but she supposed that Voldemort’s defeat must be self-apparent. He hadn’t asked any questions about what had happened since and it hadn’t even occurred to her to offer any information. He must have surmised that Harry would have shared the contents of his memories with his closest friends.

Frightened that she might just have offended him terribly, she search around for something to say. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Tea?” she pressed.

In response he reached for the teapot. She watched mutely as his fingers passed through the handle as though it were made of air.

“I can not touch or taste or feel, Miss Granger. This is what I have been trying to tell you.”

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that she made her way to work on Monday morning. She had left the lamp on the kitchen table – it seemed to like it there and it saved the faff of trying to lock it away. Doubtless it would turn up at some point if things got exciting. Even Snape had been unable to explain its odd habit of turning up when least expected. 

The Floo deposited her gracelessly in the Ministry Atrium and she joined the throng of people heading towards the lifts. It was only when she was halfway across the foyer that she noticed Ron and Harry were waiting by the fountain. Harry caught her eye.

“Still hanging round with those two?” Snape was suddenly at her elbow, moving serenely through the crowds. Hermione fought the urge to watch him to see if people avoided the space where he walked or whether they pushed straight through him.

“What are you doing here?”

“You called me.” He peered at her. Hermione felt uncomfortably like a potion ingredient being examined for worth. She'd never seen him devote that much attention to anything other than suspected wrongdoers and his gaze was much too benign for that. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth as Harry approached.

“Hermione,” he greeted, kissing her cheek. They both pretended not to notice that Ron was now studying the fountain with renewed interest. “I thought it was meant to be your day off?”

“There’s something I wanted to look for in the library,” she explained

He released her and they smiled at one another as the silence stretched between them. Hermione wondered if it would have felt quite so awkward had Professor Snape not been hovering by her shoulder and decided that without him it would probably have felt worse. With him there she felt little inclination to babble.

Thankfully it was Harry who chose to break the silence. “You’re always welcome to try the library at home.” He paused, then pulled her close for a second hug. “It’s not the same without you in it. I know Ginny misses you.”

“Thank you, Harry.” She lingered for a moment wondering if she should say more, but decided against it. “I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

* * *

The Ministry library was mostly contained within row after row of enchanted filing cabinets. It was a very neat and effective way of storing things, but it lacked the magic of any true library. Hermione dropped her bag on the narrow table by the door and moved to the reference cards to begin her search.

Half an hour and several sheaves of parchment later, she glanced up to find Snape pacing slowly back and forth. “You don’t have to wait,” she offered. “I’d be quite happy if you want to head back to the flat.”

He ignored her question. “Why did Potter think this was your day off?”

She turned her attention back to the open cabinet and shrugged. “I’d booked a long weekend to go and see my parents.”

“Shouldn’t you be there instead?”

“I could hardly just take off and leave you like that.” She half expected a pointed reminder that she had already done just that, attempting to leave him at Mr Borgin’s shop, and was grateful when it didn’t come. “Besides,” she continued blithely, “they didn’t know I was coming.”

After three hours, Hermione was ready to concede defeat. There was some material available, but none of it was immediately useful and she had the sinking feeling that she was going to have to wade through pages and pages of cramped copperplate to find the slightest piece of useful information. She stretched, feeling the muscles in her neck and lower back protest at the sudden movement. Thank goodness her position allowed her to take material off-site, else she would have been forced to set up camp amid the echoing cabinets while she searched.

She had tried to persuade Snape to leave, but he had apparently preferred to stay. “If we’re no closer to solving this by tomorrow then I’ll make the flat a bit more welcoming for you,” she offered, climbing to her feet. “I could leave the TV on, if you like, or charm a book to turn its own pages.”

“There’s no need,” he replied from the spot by the window that he had occupied since she had first sat down. “When I am not with you, the lamp calls me back.”

Hermione wondered how she could possibly reply to a statement like that. In the end, curiosity won over politeness. “Is it nice in there?”

The thought of Snape sprawled in some harem-esque mess of cushions and silken hangings was almost ridiculous enough to make her want to giggle.

“I wouldn’t know.,” he replied. “I don’t exist outside of these moments.”

Like that, the urge to tease him vanished, taking her high spirits with it. Everything she learned about his plight all seemed so very unfair. “I wish that there was a way to free you,” she sighed.

The lights dimmed and the room grew cold. Hermione thought for one desperate moment that she might have succeeded; that one reckless wish had been all it took to free him. But the lights brightened and warmth returned and nothing had changed. Snape frowned at her.

“Silly girl. The only way I’m going to escape here is when I die. This lamp is all that’s keeping me alive.”

“There has to be a way.” Hermione blinked furiously, the dust of the room catching in her throat. “I’ll try harder. Can’t you stay out here while I find a way?”

“Why? You’re the only one who can see me. This isn’t life, Hermione, this is a sentence. It’s purgatory.”


	5. Wishes Won

The latest roll of parchment was practically useless. It gave vague hints at what a genie might do, but was less than worthless when it came to elaborating on what had been done to them. It seemed as if the spell for ensnaring a person within an object was so ancient that it was not to be found in any written record. In a way Hermione was grateful – imagine if someone like Voldemort had stumbled across a spell like that. A man willing to create Horcruxes and Inferi would have had few qualms about stealing the power of others.

She would head to the bookshop tomorrow and see if there was anything else of use. Failing that, Hogwarts library might have something tucked away in the recesses of the Restricted Section. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. The school might have been restored to its former glory, but it was still an uncomfortable place to visit, teeming with memories and ghosts. Still, there was always the chance that the Black library might contain something of use, especially in one of the darker corners.

Hermione glanced across the room at her sullen guest, watching in fascination as his long hair fell forward to hide his face from her gaze. 

It was always possible that the Shrieking Shack might hold some small clue about what had happened, although she fervently prayed that it wouldn’t be necessary to set foot in there ever again. Still, she had promised herself that she would do whatever it took. A promise she fully intended to keep.

It didn't help that her best resource had steadfastly refused to help her and was showing no interest in her search. Hermione dropped the parchment on the table and rubbed her eyes. “I just wish that you would tell me the truth about what happened,” she complained. “It might make things so much easier.”

The lights flickered and Snape’s eyes grew wide, his hand travelling to the golden band around his throat. Hermione became conscious of the sudden press of magic that surrounded them.

“That wish worked, didn’t it?” she demanded, delighted. “Tell me what you wished for!”

He glared at her, but there was no refusing her, not with the magic of the lamp finally on her side. 

“As you wish,” he all but spat. “I wished that I might be popular. Pathetic, isn’t it? A little later I was invited to join the Death Eaters.” He removed the hand from his throat so that he might count down each wish. “I wished that James Potter might leave Lily for good. That was when I suddenly overheard an very interesting prophecy and unwittingly set a chain of events in motion.” He glared at her. “I’m sure Potter has told you all about my involvement in that respect?” 

Hermione nodded, taken aback by his sudden anger. _This_ was the Snape that she had feared as a child, unreasoning in his wrath. She wished there were some way to placate him, but he carried on, not even noticing her affirmation. 

“When I realised just how close I’d come to permanently fulfilling that wish by myself, I wished for a way out. Albus Dumbledore was my answer, only he failed to save Lily, or her husband. I stopped wishing after that. None of my wishes were working. Either I answered them myself or they were coming true in the worst of ways. When the Headmaster told me that the Dark Lord would rise again, I realised that I had only been granted temporary reprieve.”

Hermione held herself still. Three of his wishes were accounted for. _That left . . ._

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but he wasn't listening. She wasn’t sure if it was the compulsion of her wish, or if he was simply lost in recollection, as he continued: 

“I wished that I might see Lily before I died.” He spat the words with such fury that Hermione was scared that somehow he might hurt her.

“Instead you saw Harry?” she hazarded, remembering how he had stared into her friend’s eyes until all the light had faded from his own.

He finally seemed to notice her. “Oh no,” he answered. “I saw her alright. A girl of twenty-one, grieving her lost son, searching for her husband’s body, with no more mind for me than when she had left Hogwarts. I was a footnote of her past. I effectively wrote myself out of her life when I was a teenager and there was no wriggling my way back in.” His fury left as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving him hollow looking and drained. “She was dead and I had killed her, just as I was about to send her son to his death.”

“I had a wish left,” he continued quietly. “I’d saved it up, knowing that it was the only thing that might save me. Dumbledore had intimated that some ancient magic might be called on to save my life, but I knew better than to take such a risk. No, I’d planned on wishing to live.” He frowned. “Seeing Lily jolted me like nothing else, and in the pain of dying and realising that I’d lost her so many years before, I forgot all about my precious plans. Instead I . . .”

“You don't have to tell me,” she whispered.

“I cannot deny a wish,” he hissed. “Instead I wished for love. Not someone who might love me, but someone who I might love properly. Not infatuation, not obsession. Real love. If they could love me back it would be a bonus.”

“Oh.”

“And I somehow ended up trading places with the poor soul who haunted this bloody lamp before I did. That’s the danger,” he warned. “Some wishes, the greedy ones, can see you trapped here in my stead.”

Hermione was so overwhelmed by this unexpectedly intimate admission that his final confession barely registered. “You didn't tell me,” she castigated tiredly, but it was impossible to find enough anger to sharpen her tone. 

“I didn't have to,” he shrugged. “The rules aren't very clear, but I’m allowed to trick you all I like. Besides, you wouldn’t wish for something like that. You’re too good.”

He spoke sullenly, and Hermione was uncertain if he meant the words as an insult. Suddenly something occurred to her. “What happened to the genie before you? When you took his place?”

“Genie? Oh, that’s so absurdly Muggle! He died, Hermione. Faded into nothing.”

* * *

Malfoy Manor was beautiful.

It was also half a mile away up a sodding long drive and behind a high pair of intricately wrought gates.

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Hermione murmured.

“No. In fact it’s probably a terrible idea. Lucius might be a friend to me, but when the good name of his family is involved he can become a little unpredictable.” 

Hermione had feared as much, but a promise was a promise. Perhaps it was self-indulgent to believe that she understood her companion a little better now, but she was still determined to find a way to help.

“Do I knock?” The last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near that graceful Palladian manor, but she felt she might be doing a reasonable job of hiding her fear from Severus. Her sweaty hands were stuffed into her pockets where he couldn’t notice if they trembled. Any pallor could always be attributed to the after-effects of Apparition.

He shrugged. “They’ll know you’re here. I’m guessing the Malfoys are not at home. Not to you, at any rate.”

“But to you . . . Would they come if they knew you were here?”

“Maybe.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to snap at him and set her mind to the task at hand. “Can we force our way in?”

“No.” He heard her irritated huff and expounded, “These gates will only admit those invited by the family. Or those bearing the Dark Mark. That was an addition of the Dark Lord’s once he took up residence, and I don’t imagine that Lucius has yet found a way to undo it.”

“Well?” Hermione prompted.

“Well what?”

Hermione gestured towards the gates. “Off you go.”

Snape regarded her coolly for a moment before rolling back the sleeve of his robes. The skin of his left forearm was milky white and utterly unblemished. 

“The lamp only accepts one master at a time.” His voice was soft, gentle even, but Hermione could hear the weight behind the words. He was bound to her more tightly than Voldemort had ever managed.

“Oh.”

The silence that followed was just as heavy. Hermione wondered whether she ought to apologise, or whether that would only serve to make the matter worse. She cast around for another topic.

“Might a house-elf be able to get us in?” It had worked before, after all. Although he still threw insults in her direction each time they met, Kreacher was ordered to answer her calls. She would never ask an elf to take them inside the house itself, but to just beyond the gate would surely not be too dangerous?

“House-elves can breach most wards simply because few wizards ever consider the necessity to keep them out. I imagine that, given the events during the war, Lucius would have been quick to remedy that particular oversight. Besides, one doesn't force one’s way into the Manor unless one has a complete Auror division at one’s back. Now, unless you’d like to summon any Aurors that you feel may be of use—”

“No, thank you.” Hermione could hear the shortness in her own tone. “I have no wish to bother the boys.”

She thought he was finally going to ask her to explain the cooling between her and her two best friends, but with a forbearance that he had never shown her before the war, he let the comment pass.

“In that case,” he answered, “we just wait.”

It was a further ten minutes before a loud _crack!_ signalled the arrival of a tea towel clad house-elf. Hermione spent much of that time watching the large albino peacocks that strutted across the lawn while she tried to think of something to say. The only subjects that weren’t painful to either one or both of them all seemed so terribly inane, and she had no wish to compound the awful impression she must have made upon him so far. Not when she was having to continually re-evaluate her own impressions of him.

On further acquaintance, Severus Snape was far more generous and forgiving than she would have ever believed possible.

“Lally! Go and tell your ingrate master that I’m here to settle some old debts!”

Or perhaps not.

Ignoring him, the elf approached Hermione, his gazed fixed disapprovingly on her jean-clad knees.

“The family is not at home, young miss.”

“When will they be back?” she asked. “Only it’s pretty imperative that they—”

“The family is not at home,” the elf repeated, loudly and slowly as if she were having trouble understanding. 

“Lally,” Snape continued. “You were told to treat me like family. I need to speak with Lucius befo—”

But the elf had gone, vanishing into the ether without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Well!” Hermione growled. “That was just rude!”  
“He couldn’t see me,” Snape replied. “Not even the elves,” he sighed. Hermione realised that he was no longer talking to her. “I’d . . . I’d hoped that their magic might let them. They understand servitude and debts. I wondered if they might know a way.”

Hermione's heart broke for him then. For all his bluster, part of him had been hoping that this might work. He wanted to be free.

* * *

Hermione wanted a cup of tea. And at least two slices of toast, spread with butter thick enough to leave teeth marks in. The very notion of returning to the Manor had left her feeling shaken, but the look on Snape’s face made her realise that she would have gladly marched back into the lion’s den if it meant finding some answers for him. 

Now he was back, stuck with her in her tiny flat. Bound to her, his new personal Dark Lady. It felt so wrong to eat and drink in front of him when he could do neither himself. Instead she found herself turning his situation over in her mind. Had there been something that she had missed? Something that they still could try?

“We could try a psychic. Professor Trelawney, perhaps. Or Luna, maybe. Harry said she could recognise him through Polyjuice.”

“It just doesn’t work that way, and even if it did, what would I do with their company? If I’m to be stuck with just one person, at least let it be someone with a semblance of intelligence.”

Hermione knew better than to ask if that had been a compliment.

Unthinking, she raised a hand to place it on his arm. There was a momentary sensation like static, but her hand connected with nothing more substantial than air.

She was bitterly disappointed on his behalf. She was still coming to terms with what his life must have been like and the sacrifices he must have made, only to be condemned to such an existence after all that he had already suffered. 

Hermione was also bitterly disappointed for herself. Selfish as it was, this chance to know Severus Snape had been a revelation to her. She was spending her nights alone to talk to a man that the world could neither see nor hear, and gladly. Yet the last few hours had highlighted that he might never be more than a transitory acquaintance, only appearing at her call. He might be bound to her, but she would end up using her wishes sooner or later, no matter how hard she tried not to, and then he would leave. 

Knowing that whatever was building between them could only be temporary hurt more than she would have believed. She knew it was self-centred to focus on herself when he had already lost so much, but the thought of losing someone else made her heart ache.

Her attempt at comfort had been clumsy. Worse, it had made her aware of something that would make their inevitable parting more painful still.

She was disappointed that he couldn't touch her.


	6. Wishes Lost

It was mid-afternoon when the Floo flared into life. Hermione had been reading all morning and the sudden green light caused her to blink. Approaching the fireplace cautiously, she was surprised to find Mr Borgin waiting patiently behind her wards.

He bowed his head. “Might I come through?”

She stepped back, and the shopkeeper’s stooped shoulders entered her room. It was odd to see him beyond the confines of his gloomy establishment. Despite his oily black hair, his face was heavily lined, and she realised he must be much older than she had first assumed. 

He looked around her front room nervously and Hermione realised that this might well be the first Muggle home he had ever entered. She watched as his eyes landed on her television and widened.

Ah, _electricity._

“Would you like to sit?” she asked in her least threatening voice. “Can I get you a drink?”

“That is very kind of you,” he murmured. “But I don’t mean to take up too much of your time.” His eyes eventually fixed on the lamp that had somehow made its way back to the coffee table, as if not wishing to miss out on the conversation. Hermione had come to detest the sneaky thing. “I came to speak about your . . . acquisition.” 

He was almost whispering now and Hermione took a half step closer to listen as he continued.

“I take it you’ve come to understand the purpose of such an object?”

She frowned. “I believe so.”

“And that, perhaps, you had become acquainted with its more intimate . . . ah . . .”

“Yes,” she answered bluntly. “I’ve met him.”

“You must be careful, Miss. They are powerful, clever creatures.” He cast a sidelong look at the lamp and shook his head. “They live so long that they learn everything there is about human nature, but lose their own in the process. They can be . . . tricksy.”

Hermione had discovered as much herself from tracking down what little information she could. The books and texts had all contained veiled warnings for those foolish enough to seek the power of a lamp, but none had been quite so direct. “How do you know this?” she demanded.

His shoulders dropped a little further. “This isn’t the first enchanted object that I’ve seen. My old partner, Burke – his father was lost to a lamp. Burke spent much of his adult life trying to free him.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. _This was new!_ The most recent reports she had found came from the Elizabethan era. “Did he manage?”

He looked up sharply. “You mustn’t try,” he cautioned. “The only way to leave a lamp is to have another take your place.”

And like that, he confirmed everything that Severus had been trying to tell her all along. Hermione shook her head, refusing to give in to the sense of hopelessness that his words engendered. “Is that the only way? Did Burke’s father never leave?”

It was his turn to frown. “Perhaps I have said too much already. After all, it is not my story to tell.”

“Please,” she whispered. “You know that I need to know. Did they find a way?”

He shook his head. “In the end they destroyed the lamp, Miss. It was the only way to end the family’s suffering.”

* * *

After the glow of the Floo, her little flat seemed dark and wan. “I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be.” She had known he would be there without even having to turn. “I knew it was the case. I cannot exist without the lamp.”

“I wish there was a way that you stay here,” she sighed. “With me.”

There was no taking back the words once they had been spoken aloud, nor was there any mistaking the sincerity of her offer. It was also impossible to ignore the dark crackle of frustrated magic in the air as she wished for the impossible. 

When Severus didn’t reply, Hermione forced herself to face him. His face was inscrutable, but his eyes – _his eyes!_ – were dark with some emotion she couldn’t even name. 

She reached for him and for a moment, she believed that her fingers would connect with flesh, that she would have the proof that his life was not yet over. Instead, after a brief and tantalising moment of resistance, they moved through air instead. He was within arm’s reach, yet so far beyond her that he might as well have existed only in her mind.

“I’m just a shade,” he whispered. “No one can touch me. Only you can see me. Would you have me spend an eternity like this?

“I thought this would be preferable to death. I was . . . I was afraid to die. But now I see that this is all I could hope for, forever being on the outside, watching from afar. This is no life, Hermione. Let me go.”

“Stay with me tonight,” she breathed. “Tomorrow . . . tomorrow we’ll find a way to set you free, one way or another.”

* * *

Hermione changed in the bathroom, pulling on her visiting pyjamas and brushing her teeth with care. How long had it been since she had last shared a room? How long since she had last shared her bed? 

When she returned to her room he was hovering awkwardly at the end of the bed. She climbed under the heavy duvet and held out a hand. When he didn’t move she dropped her arm to her side. “Do I need to wish it?” she asked.

Something strange flickered over his face and for a moment Hermione was tempted to do just that, to wish for him in her bed. But it couldn’t come true, not in any real sense. He had been right before; he was little more than a shade.

The bed didn’t move as he sank carefully down beside her. She wasn’t sure if it was the bed or his own will that held him there but, as long as she didn’t move the sheets, the illusion held. Lying so close to her, yet completely beyond her reach.

She closed her eyes as she rolled onto her side, not wanting to see the shifting duvet give lie to his nearness. When she opened them again he was little more than a hand span away. 

_It would be like this to wake up next to him,_ her mind supplied. Perhaps without the all-covering dark robes. Or perhaps not. It was hard to imagine him without them. He did not turn to face her but stayed staring at the ceiling, his breathing even and slow.

Hermione took the opportunity to watch him. While no longer a towering apparition of smoke and darkness, he still had a sheen of unreality to him. She was no longer certain if she could trust her memory, but she was certain that his hair had been less artfully arranged and that the Snape she had known had carried dark circles beneath his eyes. He was like some exact and faithful replica of himself, only better. Carved from marble while the original had been cast in slate. She found herself longing to see the real original. How many wishes did she have now? She had already wasted three.

His hand rested on the eiderdown, his long fingers stroking a careful pattern against the cloth.

“Can you feel that?” she wondered.

The fingers stopped. “Almost.” His voice had not changed, she realised. It was the same slow, liquid purr that had held her mesmerised since her first year. “There’s a softness.”

She slid her hand across the bed to rest against the image of his fingers. “And now?”

“There’s a . . . a warmth.”

“I wish I could touch you.” The lights flickered and a pained expression crossed his face as she wasted another wish. She expected him to deride her for it, but when his eyes opened she was startled and beguiled to find them softened.

“As do I,” he whispered.

And what could she say to that? What could any woman say upon finding the man she didn’t even know she had been looking for, only to realise that he was so far out of her reach that she may as well have imagined him? 

She considered the offer that she had made to him only that afternoon – that he stay with her, bound to her by the lamp. It seemed so horribly selfish now that she thought about what she had really suggested to him, yet if he had agreed . . . 

She closed her eyes.

That sort of relationship would not have been fair to either of them. She could not condemn him to a life as her slave. As for herself, her needs, what of those? How long could she live with a man whom she could not kiss? Who could not hold her? 

“It seems so unfair that I only had this chance to know you.” When she opened her eyes, his fingers were still resting against her own. “That you never had a chance to live your own life.”

“I made my choices, Hermione.” His voice could be very soft when he wished. Handling her as gently as the softest of touches.

“I know,” she replied. “It’s just I wish . . . I wish . . .”

“Don’t,” he whispered, placing a finger against her lips. Hermione could feel the pins and needles sensation of his almost-touch. “Don't waste another wish on me.”

* * *

It was dark when she woke. She reached out for him, forgetting that her hands would find no resistance in the darkness.

“Are you there?” She sounded so unsure, even to herself.

“I’m always here, remember. _‘I wish you could stay here with me,’_ ” he mocked. “Well, you got your wish. I’m stuck here with you, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m sorry.” She kept her voice level. “But I am happier having you here than thinking you’d faded away to nothing.”

The ensuing silence lasted so long that Hermione was beginning to wonder if maybe he had fallen asleep. When he finally spoke his voice sounded odd.

“You snore.”

“I don’t,” she countered. “I talk in my sleep.”

“Yes.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You do.” It was a wonderful sound, and Hermione realised just how much she wanted to hear him laugh. After tomorrow she would never have the chance.

* * *

That night she dreamt she was sleeping in his arms. When she twisted, trying to touch him properly, he seemed to drift out of her reach, as if caught in the motion of an invisible sea.

_“Don’t,” he whispered. “This is enough. Don’t make it end.”_

_He nuzzled against her neck, his breath hot against her skin._

_“You’re real here,” she whispered._

_“No,” he replied. “This is just a dream.”_

When she awoke his side of the bed was empty.

* * *

Hermione had never Flooed in sick before. The only previous occasions when she had failed to arrive as scheduled had usually involved being Petrified, having turned herself into a cat, or chasing round the country searching for fragments of a torn soul. Still, having the morning to herself to act as executioner to Severus Snape didn’t seem like a completely fivilous use of personal time and she felt only a fleeting moment of guilt as she lied to her line manager. 

She wanted to delay his leaving for as long as possible, hoping to eke out every moment together until they had to say goodbye. She made herself a leisurely breakfast, forcing down each mouthful as he watched. The dishes were washed by hand, knife, fork, plate. Hermione cleaned her teeth, then cleaned them again. Then she cleaned the bathroom, chattering brightly as he slouched silently by the door.

Finally there were no other distractions left.

Her little living room didn't seem quite formal enough for such an occasion and her bedroom was out of the question. The pleasant, airy room had new memories now, ones that she did not wish to sully. Instead, they found themselves facing each other across the lamp in the kitchen. Hermione had carried the hateful thing from the bedroom at arms’ length – its voyeuristic tendencies were apparently growing worse – into the kitchen and placed it on the floor.

What she was about to do felt very final. Hermione felt the same sick roiling feeling that had flooded her stomach before she had raised the Basilisk fang to strike the Hufflepuff cup. This time, it was not the fear that might some Dark magic might rise to prevent her, but the thought that she was going to be able to carry this through unimpeded. 

Severus watched her, as calm and as still as an iceberg. Eventually he spoke. “Do you know what to do?” 

Hermione nodded. “I think so.”

Neither moved. It was Severus who eventually broke the silence.

“You have your one wish,” he groused. “Make it count.”

“Alright,” she whispered. She’d thought about this. Thought about all the possible permutations. Thought about what would happen if she got it wrong. Had thought about what would happen if she got it right.

She cleared her throat, then spoke the words that would undo everything.

“I wish that you had your love, Severus Snape, and that you were free to love and be loved in return.”


	7. Mischief Managed

_“I wish that you had your love, Severus Snape, and that you were free to love and be loved in return.”_

There was a blazing flash of light followed by choking darkness, and the air became heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. 

Then . . . _nothing._

No sight, no sound. Hermione found herself slumped against a cool, brass-like smoothness and realised her wish had come true.

The lamp had claimed her. 

Surely that must mean that, somewhere, Severus was now free?

Then, just as suddenly, the crushing darkness was replaced with stark light from the fluorescent tube overhead and air whooshed back into her chest. 

Hermione blinked. She had somehow ended up on the floor, her face pressed against the smooth glass door of the oven, her legs caught gracelessly beneath her. She raised her hand to her throat, still half expecting to find the heavy gold torc that would mark her as a slave. Her fingers met warm skin. _Yet if she were alive . . ._

The lamp was lying on its side on the kitchen floor, a few of the ugly brown panes of glass knocked free from their settings. Behind the lamp was a pair of scuffed black boots, half hidden beneath badly creased robes. 

Hermione blinked again, but he was still there. Not the impressive genie of the lamp, but a hook-nosed, round-shouldered man with greasy hair and a look of complete disbelief on his face. Snape. _Severus._

One of his scuffed boots slid forward and he nudged the lamp with his toe. It gave a tired wheeze and emitted a puff of green smoke before crumbling into dust. 

“You broke it,” he whispered. “You broke the enchantment.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. Even without the magic of the lamp they were as dark as sin. “You saved me.” He frowned. “How did you know that would happen?”

The truth was far too ridiculous to admit to, she knew. A lie would save them both from a thousand difficult questions and even harder answers. The truth could hurt them both. 

She had gambled her freedom, on a dangerous wish, in exchange for his. The idea that they might both somehow win hadn’t really occurred to her.

“I didn’t,” she confessed.

It was hard to tell in the stark, clean light of the kitchen, but he seemed to grow pale.

“But then why?” He sounded confused. “Why offer up your life in exchange for mine?” When she didn’t answer, he crossed the distance between them, his boots crunching heavily over the powdery glass left behind, and caught her by the shoulders, pulling her roughly to her feet. “Why, Hermione?”

She splayed her fingers across his chest in an attempt at balance, as shocked by the warm feel of his body beneath the cloth and the firmness of his flesh beneath her fingertips as by his sudden wrath. His grip tightened on her arms and for a moment she thought that he was going to shake her.

_Why? If he didn't know her reasons then . . ._ At a loss for an answer, Hermione simply leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

His lips were soft and dry, his chin rough with a faint rasp of stubble. Hermione closed her eyes, revelling in the solid feel of him beneath her hands. Flesh, bone, and crumpled cloth, he was here and he was real. He even smelled real: a curious mix of potions class, magic, and the slightest hint of sweat that – for some unknown reason – caused the most delicious curl of anticipation to coil deep within her belly.

She was so caught up in the wonderful _feel_ of him finally within her grasp, that it took her a moment to realise that he wasn’t kissing her back. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, neither pushing her away nor pulling her close.

She froze then pulled away.

“Hermione,” he began gently. “Miss Granger—”

“No,” She stopped him, “it’s alright. You don’t have to explain.” Because what could he say that might make this any less humiliating? What had she been thinking? He was _Severus Snape_ , for God’s sake. His entire story hinged upon his unwavering devotion to Lily Evans. What had she possibly believed that the few short days they had spent together could have done to change that immutable fact?

Whatever relationship she had built in her head had simply stemmed from her need to help him. He might be Severus Snape, but she was still just Hermione Granger, the girl who threw herself into grand gestures in the hope other people would see them as the declarations they were and repay her with steadfast loyalty and love. The girl who ended up disappointed and alone.

She stepped back and Severus released her, his arms dropping to his sides.

“It’s alright,” she repeated thickly. “I’m just so very glad to see you free. I was caught up in the moment. Please don’t—”

She was interrupted by a scuffle at the window and the sharp tap of a beak against the pane. A beautiful snowy owl was glaring impatiently through the glass. For a moment Hermione thought it might have been a missive from Harry, until she remembered with a pang why he now shared little Pig with Ginny instead. Whoever the bird belonged to, she couldn’t have been more grateful for their timing.

The owl hissed at her as she reached for the note attached to its leg and leapt back into the air the moment the parchment was in her hand, not waiting for a reply. “Friendly,” Hermione muttered, unrolling the note.

It was brief, a single line of elegant scrawl.

_Lucius Malfoy shall be at home to callers this afternoon until three_.

Not ten minutes before, such a summons would have intrigued her. Now, even though the nature of Malfoy’s dealings with the lamp were still a complete mystery to her, Hermione could sense her involvement in the whole affair was drawing to a close. She had fulfilled the promise that she had made to herself and found a way to free Snape. She hadn’t stopped to consider what role she might play in his new life and, apparently, neither had he.

She passed him the note. “Perhaps you ought to go,” she suggested. “Find out what he was doing with the lamp.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Although I’m not quite sure what sort of reception I might find. Besides, Lucius might be a little alarmed to see me without some forewarning.”

“Draco will be pleased to see you, I suspect,” Hermione offered. “I had the feeling he was against getting rid of the lamp in the first place. I think he knew it was yours.”

“Draco . . .” He nodded briskly. “It used to follow me around, too. He may have recognised it.”

It was only then that Hermione realised that she had neglected to inform him that his godson was alive and well. It also occurred to her that Severus had not asked a single question about him or any other of his friends or acquaintances. 

Thinking back, she hadn’t even told him how Voldemort had died. He must have surmised that the Dark Lord had been defeated simply by the fact that Harry had the time to hang around the Ministry Atrium with his best friend on weekday mornings, but he had never questioned further, and she had never thought to provide him with answers. She hadn’t even asked if she were the first person to summon him from his lamp, but had just assumed it to be the case.

As far as she knew, Snape wasn’t even aware that his name had been cleared, or that he had been posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin. He didn’t know that his colleagues had survived, that Hogwarts had been repaired and restored, or that teenage boys up and down the country were learning hair straightening charms from their sisters in order to mimic the trademark sweep of hair that brushed his shoulders and hid his eyes.

Surely those ought to have been the first things that she had told him? Yes, their meeting had been an unusual one, but that should not have prevented her from letting him know that the world he had died to save was now flourishing, all thanks to him. 

She hadn’t even thanked him. Not properly.

“Still,” he continued, “perhaps I had best go.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice cheerful and over-bright. “There must be an awful lot for you to catch up on.” A thought occurred to her. “Do you have a wand?” The implication that he might need one if he were to visit the Manor alone didn't seem to cause him the least offence.

“I have a spare wand at home,” he answered before pausing. “Do you know if I still have a home?”

“Oh, yes!” She rushed to reassure him. “The Ministry declared Spinner’s End to be a national monument. There was some talk of setting a museum there, but it was decided that it was too close to Muggle communities to play host to large numbers of witches and wizards. And there was an issue with some of the wards left behind.” She could hear herself beginning to babble, and forced herself to stop. “Instead they had the whole street snapped up by English Heritage.”

If he hadn’t been Snape, she might have believed that he was flummoxed by the news. “Oh.”

“Yes, they were a little surprised, too. But apparently traditional mill workers’ cottages are becoming very rare and we’re in danger of losing all links to our industrial past. They left everything exactly as it was while the Foundation of the Fallen decide how to proceed. I work in that department,” she added.

“Then the Floo may still be connected,” he mused. “Miss Granger, I know that I’ve already imposed upon your good nature enough, but might I use your Floo connection?”

“But of course,” Hermione assured him, wondering if the conversation could become any more stilted or polite. Only last night she had slept beside him.

There didn't seem to be anything to say after that, thankfully. Hermione wasn’t sure how much more of this cheerful, courteous small talk she could take. The awkwardness of her unwanted kiss was still filling the space between them, and his desire to leave was obvious. 

She led the way back into the cosy front room and its neat little fireplace. Severus accepted a pinch of Floo Powder from the old tea tin on the mantelpiece, then paused and held out his free hand. “Miss Granger.”

“Severus,” she returned, accepting his handshake, wondering if this was really how everything was going to end. Her hand felt very small in his.

“Would you, perhaps, be willing to keep my . . . return . . . from public knowledge for a few days? Just until I find my feet?”

“Of course!” she agreed. “It’s your freedom. Severus, I want you to use it however you wish. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he did something very strange. Lifting her hand to his lips he placed a careful kiss on her knuckles. “You are an extraordinary witch, Hermione Granger. It would take someone incredibly selfless to withstand the magic of the lamp.”

Her first instinct was to argue with him – she had been so very selfish, after all – but she stilled herself and squeezed his fingers in return. “Thank you.”

There was a pause when neither spoke, her hand still caught in his. Suddenly he seemed to remember himself and let her go, casting the powder into the grate.

“Well, goodbye then.”

“Goodbye, Severus.” She blinked, the bright light of the Floo causing her eyes to sting. “Be happy.”

He spoke the words of his address and was gone.

* * *

Hermione scrubbed at her face with her hanky, determined that this time she would finally stop the awful, gulping sobs that had overtaken her the moment the glow of the Floo had died down. 

Tired and headachy, she made her way into the bathroom to wash her face and search for a mild pain potion. The bathroom cupboard was empty, save for tooth floss and tampons, and Hermione closed the mirrored door with a sigh, catching sight of her reflection as she did.

She looked pathetic. Red rimmed eyes in a pale face, set in an expression of abject misery. 

Hermione shook her head. 

She would go and buy a vial of Headache Reliever, have an early night and somehow find the ability to carry on as if Severus Snape had never whirled into her sitting room in a plume of smoke. Her life had felt fairly complete before him. Besides, all this time spent with him had made her realise just how precious her time was. How much longer could she avoid her friends? There were bridges to be mended in her own life before she worried about what was happening to Snape.

Really, Hermione had always known that he was out of her reach. Even when his lips had been against hers, his heart had been somewhere else. She had been a fool to hope it might have been otherwise.

The streets were quieter now that Hogwarts was in session, and there was the first nip of approaching autumn in the air. Hermione gracelessly drank the potion in the apothecary, grimacing at the taste but grateful for the instant relief it provided. With the headache gone she found herself sinking into that tired, calm acceptance that sometimes follows heavy tears, when the emotions that caused so much pain seem to drift out of reach.

She walked aimlessly down the cobbled street, not quite ready to head home. Her feet carried her, of their own accord, towards the open doors of Flourish and Blotts. The smell of dust and binding glue worked their own special magic on her and Hermione felt herself begin to unwind.

The world hadn't ended. She was free, Snape was free. Really, all of her wishes had come true, given time. Mostly they had been rather selfish, but she supposed that was the nature of wishes. Her last wish, though, the one that had somehow granted his freedom, was as selfless as it was possible to be. _I wish that you were free to love me, Severus Snape, and able to return my love in kind._ That might have been what had been in her heart, but she would never have uttered the words aloud. Binding him to her in that way would have been far, far worse than the curse binding him to the lamp. This way, not only did he have the chance to find love on his own terms, but he had the chance to be loved in return. He would be loved; she knew it. He was too good, too brave, _too dear_ not to find such a happiness.

She just wished it could have been with her.

* * *

The flat felt empty and cold when Hermione returned home, laden down with bags from the supermarket as well as her purchases from the bookshop. With a flick of her wand, she lit all the lights and the fire, too, even though it wasn’t really late enough in the year to warrant it. Tonight she would have a guilty supper of pizza and ice cream in front of the television, followed by a long bath spent reading the novel she had bought herself as a treat. She would read it, allow herself to become a little weepy over the plot, then have an early night. 

A noise from the corridor made her start. She rarely used the front door, finding the Floo far handier for work, and hadn’t yet met many of her neighbours. Feeling a little annoyed at the sudden interruption to her quiet evening, she unlocked the door and peered out into the corridor.

“. . . can’t stay out here all night. I’ve a good mind to call the police.” It was Mr Streatfield from across the hall, glaring distrustfully at the man dressed all in black leaning against her wall.

Severus had his arms folded across his chest, but Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't be long before he was reaching for his wand. He had the tired stance of a man who had been standing in the same position for many hours, and she wondered if he had ever got further than Spinner’s End before returning.

“I will remain here until Miss Granger returns.”

She wondered why he hadn’t used the Floo, then remembered that she had never thought to include him in her wards. How long had he been waiting for her return? Waiting outside her door?

“I tell you—” Mr Streatfield began, drawing himself to his full height, still inches shorter than the man he addressed.

Hermione cleared her throat and both men looked up. 

“This man says he’s here to visit you,” Mr Streatfield informed her. Hermione nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Her neighbour frowned, then shrugged, returning to his own flat, muttering as he went about people not answering their doors and the sort of people allowed to own property these days.

Both Hermione and Severus watched him go, then turned to one another.

“You’re here.” It was such a terribly inane thing to say, but it was all that was filling her mind. _He’s here, he’s here, he came back . . ._ She watched as he came closer, something painfully like hope beginning to fill her chest.

He stopped just in front of her. She half expected him to admonish her for stating the obvious, but he simply reached towards her. It felt so natural to slide her arms around his narrow waist and press her face against his chest.

“I fear I’ll always be here,” her murmured into her hair. “If you’ll have me?”

Letting him go, Hermione stood back so that he might enter the flat. “I wished for it, didn’t I?”

* * *

_The subtle gift, a lover’s kiss,_  
With careful magic caught inside,  
Locked away from Death’s dark gaze  
A moment caught in time. 

_Hidden safe in lover’s arms_  
Bound with ancient art.  
For two threads, twined in fate  
Not all the stars can part. 


End file.
